


Indestructible

by Silvestria



Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: Angst, F/M, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, Romance, Season/Series 02
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-08
Updated: 2012-01-30
Packaged: 2017-10-25 20:37:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,545
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/274531
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Silvestria/pseuds/Silvestria
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It is two months since the events of episode 8 when the reappearance of a forgotten talisman in Matthew's sock drawer sets off a chain reaction which might be enough to break a cycle of destructive behaviour. Eventual catharsis.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Kicking the Chest

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. This story contains spoilers for all of season 2.
> 
> 2\. The rating will go up to M in the third and final chapter.
> 
> 3\. Hugs to everyone following episode 8!

Somehow in his grief he had forgotten all about it.

It seemed like a kick in the face, another kick in the face that was, to see this memento of his damn stupidity sitting there at the back of his sock drawer. At some point he must have placed it there for safe keeping.

 _Safe keeping_? The stupid, little toy was indestructible; it had come through the war more unscathed than himself. Its beady, black, glassy eyes were unblinking and accusatory as they stared up at Matthew where the dog lay in the palm of his hand. Good luck? Was that what it had brought him? Was he supposed to be lucky for having this life? This non-life? A life without love or hope and filled instead with soul-crushing guilt? What if... what if the toy had been responsible not for his luck but his lack of it? William dead, him injured, crippled, all his hopes crushed, lied to by the doctor, his eyes opened too late, Lavinia dead... There was no luck in recovering; anybody could recover. Anybody except for those who did not want to.

Matthew's hand closed firmly round the charm and he closed his eyes tightly. His throat felt strangely constrained. He wanted to dismiss his gloomy thoughts but at the same time there was a perverse pleasure to be gained from the way they pricked and jabbed at him.

She had been a witch giving it to him. If she had not done so he could have died with William, instead of William. Would it have been better if he had? Once upon a time he had said that a soldier would rather die instantly than live a half life. He had regained feeling in his legs but the rest of him... the rest of him still felt numb. _She_ had brought him back. And he did not want to be back. Not now.

Eventually he opened his eyes and they fell on his large, heavy wooden chest of drawers. His bedroom was flooded with bright, innocent summer light, dust motes floating over the open drawers, his clothing neatly stacked in piles around his room and in his suitcases. It was such an ordinary room, so very, very bloody ordinary. Looking at it now, he felt as he had when he had left his childhood bedroom in Manchester only now he was well over thirty and he was no longer a child. At least – Well, in some respects- He had thought this room would be different. He had had expectations. He had had dreams.

A sudden uncontrollable wave of anger, resentment, regret and misery washed over him and he kicked the chest with all his strength, before crying out in pain and dropping the toy to the floor as he sank onto the bed, clutching his leg. He found himself blinking and breathing hard as stabs of hot agony pricked through his legs, unwelcome reminders of feeling regained.

Footsteps were heard on the stairs and seconds later, without waiting for him to answer the knock, Isobel pushed open the door.

“Matthew? What happened? Are you in pain?”

He glowered up at her, still clutching his leg, his fingers only increasing the pressure he could feel. “I-” His voice stuck in his throat and he was forced to swallow several times.

Isobel closed the door behind her. “Did you fall? Shall I look at it?”

Matthew waved her away and eventually managed to choke out, “I kicked the chest.”

“You kicked the chest.”

For a moment they simply stared at each other, Isobel anxiously and Matthew malevolently. Then, when he did not seem inclined to say anything more, his mother sat down next to him on the bed and said quietly, “You should leave the packing to Molesley if it's too much for you.”

“It's not the packing, Mother.”

Isobel nodded at the floor. “No, I didn't think it was.” Then her eyes caught sight of the dog and she glanced at him. “What's that toy doing here again? Are you taking it with you?”

He stretched out a trembling hand. “Don't touch it! It – it's cursed!”

She had been going to pick it up but now she stilled and sat back up again. “Ah.”

Matthew sighed, frustrated with her lack of argument. Deep down he knew he was being unreasonable. Why wasn't anyone going to fight him, force him to confront himself and make him feel even worse than he did already?

For several minutes they sat side by side, lost in their thoughts, the only movement the progress of the second hand on Matthew's alarm clock, the ticking an obtrusive interruption of the silence.

"Lavinia wanted you to be happy,” Isobel ventured eventually.

Matthew turned to glare at her as if he could not understand what she was saying. “I shall never be happy again!”

“Matthew-”

He shook off the hand she tried to lay on his arm. Once more, anguish washed over him and made articulation difficult. “You see, for one brief moment, I thought that perhaps- And then, gone – gone forever!"

“Your relationship with Lavinia wasn't brief, dear. Dismissing it won't help, I don't think. I know you're mourning her but -”

He stood up abruptly and winced as he put his weight back on his leg. “I'm not,” he interrupted, “talking about Lavinia, Mother!”

Stifling a groan and relishing his difficulty in performing the task, he slowly bent down and picked up the toy dog from the floor and placed it on the top of the dresser more gently than might have been expected. Isobel watched his every move with the wariness grown from two months of having to deal with his snapping and unpredictability. After Matthew had limped to the window and leaned his arms against the frames, she continued to observe the talisman thoughtfully.

“Have you ever considered her feelings?” she asked after a long pause.

He stiffened. “Lavinia's dead. What feelings are there to consider?”

“It seems to me that you do nothing except consider Lavinia's feelings or what you think they were,” she replied mildly, “but I wasn't talking about her either.”

Matthew stared out of the window. Everything outside was green and luminous in the hot summer sunshine. Inside the house, he felt trapped and stifled. The very air seemed to be preventing him from speaking.

“I don't want to discuss it, Mother,” he retorted after another long pause without turning round. “In fact, I wish you'd leave. I need to finish packing.”

Isobel stood up sharply. She took a step towards the door, and then stopped. Her hands, clasped in front of her had begun to shake. “No, Matthew,” she said decisively.

He turned to look at her. “No?”

“You may not want to talk about it, but I do! I've really had enough of you! Do you know how hard it's been these last few months putting up with your silences and constant bad temper?”

“How hard it's been for _you_?” he exclaimed, drawing back in offence. “Mother, my fiancée-”

“Your fiancée died! So have lots of people's fiancées! And I know that you're mourning Lavinia, we all are-”

“Are you? Are you really?”

“Of course I am; she was a dear, sweet girl. Her death was a tragedy in every possible way. But grief for her is not what is driving this, is it? You are not running away to Manchester because Lavinia died of the 'flu!”

He shook his head at her in warning. “Mother...”

“What are you actually going to do there? Do you have a job to go to? Do you even have somewhere to live?”

“Mother! I wish-”

Once started, it was hard to make Isobel stop and now that she had begun on this long desired topic, she would not back down. “You can't stop me from speaking, not now, Matthew. I have stood by all this time in the hope that you would come to your senses, but-”

“There is nothing wrong with my senses.”

“Did Mary give you that? That toy you wouldn't let me throw away?”

His panicked expression was answer enough and Isobel's set into even greater determination. She strode across the room and picked it up and as she did so Matthew sprung into action and reached out for it, a moment too late.

“What are you going to do with it then?” she asked. “Just keep it around with your socks in case it decides to curse you some more? _You_ are the master of your destiny, not a stuffed toy! The war's over and you are no longer a little boy!”

Everything she said was only making him feel more and more angry. How _dare_ she bring up Mary at this stage? Just the very thought of her made his blood boil with rage and longing and guilt.

“So stop treating me like one then,” he replied coldly. “And give me that. You're right; Mary gave it to me, but it means nothing. I forgot I had it.”

“It meant something before.” She gave it to him reluctantly.

“That was _before_!” he cried, shoving it into his pocket. “God, Mother, I can't-”

He made as if to leave the room but she anticipated him and darted between him and the door.

“Before what exactly, Matthew? Before you realised she still loved you or before you realised you still loved her?”

His mouth fell open. “I don't-”

“Don't look at me as if it's coming as a surprise. Her feelings are quite evident, but yours... That's what Lavinia meant, wasn't it, when she was dying?”

Matthew could not speak. He was starting to shake and was forced to grab the bed post.

Isobel continued remorselessly as she began to piece it together for herself as much as for him. “For goodness sake, Matthew, she would have broken it off if she'd lived!”

“I didn't-” He swallowed. “I didn't want to break it off.” He voice came out strangled. “It wouldn't have been right, not after everything she did for me-”

Isobel laughed with hollow triumph. “What she did for you! What about what Mary did?”

He only stared.

“Nobody nurses their cousin the way Mary nursed you when you first-”

“ _What?_ ”

“She rarely left your side; no wife could have been more selfless and attentive. Do you mean to say you have no memory, or do you simply not want to-”

“God.”

Now he was feeling sick on top of everything else and when he blindly pushed past his mother to the door, she let him go this time. He couldn't breathe in the suffocating atmosphere of this hot bedroom. He needed – He needed air.

“Where are you going?” called Isobel as he grabbed his hat and cane and pulled open the front door.

Matthew hesitated on the threshold, the muggy air doing nothing to refresh him.

“Out,” he said shortly.

She did not own him. He was not beholden to her. He was a grown man! And grown men did not need to tell their mothers when they were going for a walk.


	2. On the Steps of the Folly

Mary.

He tried not to think about her as a general principle. It was difficult; difficult to love someone so absolutely and yet not be able to even think about her, let alone look at her, without feeling the deepest guilt and self-loathing. He could not process what his mother had told him, or rather he did not want to. To add guilt towards Mary to his guilt towards Lavinia; was there to be no end to it? There was nothing he could do; he had treated both of them terribly and there was  _nothing_ _he_ _could_ _do_  to change that. The only thing he could perhaps have done would have been to marry Mary in the first place and never have engaged himself to Lavinia, but how could he have done? He had not known, oh, he had not known.

Matthew was walking as fast as he could through the village, the taps of his cane hardly keeping up with the pace he was setting himself. The heat was even more oppressive outside than it had been in his bedroom and he was breathless before he had even passed the church, his head turned purposefully away from the graveyard. He did not need to look to be reminded.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Crawley!" said someone as they passed him and Matthew almost jumped out of his skin. It was only Mrs. Midwinter from the post-office, perennially good natured, and he quickly doffed his hat and managed a smile, but only just. This was intolerable; he had no idea where he was going but he did not want company. Especially cheerful company.

A little way past the churchyard was a kissing gate that led directly into the Downton parkland. He pushed it open, heard it clang behind him with satisfying finality and started to stride out across the long, summer grass. The ground was uneven and forced him to slow down, but perhaps more than the physical difficulties of speeding across the field, the green of the grass and trees and quiet of the countryside calmed him slightly. Slowing his pace, he shrugged out of his heavy black jacket, draped it over his arm, and rolled his shoulders in freedom.

Damned mourning. Couldn't there be a version for hot days that was not black? Then he kicked himself for blaming his clothes, that outer symbol of his grief for Lavinia, for his discomfort. If he was uncomfortable then he deserved it all. If the clothes were a penance then that was the price that must be paid. He took a sideways swipe with his cane and beheaded an entire host of dandelions, scattering their fluffy seeds into the air.

The sheer number of deaths in the war had changed mourning customs for ever. Nevertheless, Matthew still stubbornly clung to ritual and was determined to see out six months of full mourning for his fiancée as a compromise. His mother was already into half-mourning and up at the big house they had long abandoned it all together. Lavinia had been no relation of theirs after all and, as Cousin Violet had drily pointed out, "Mary can hardly get married in black!"

Provocatively, Matthew did not see why not; she had always looked beautiful in black.

He continued to trudge through the park without any real idea of where he was going. He was only glad that Downton was such a big estate. The chances of meeting anyone so far from the house were very slim and the physical exercise was good for him. What was it Doctor Clarkson said? That he ought to keep moving, though avoid anything too strenuous? Oh, he wished he could keep moving! Removing his jacket was not enough; he tugged at his collar and loosened the black tie, swallowing several times as if he really could breathe better now.

Some time later, he emerged from a clump of trees to see the house directly before him in the distance. Immediately on his left on a rise in the ground was the heavy, majestic stone structure that was Downton's eighteenth century folly, a gift of love from the infatuated sixth Viscount to his wife, the only remnant of the neo-classical vision of the period, long after the old house had been replaced by the current building. Mary had sometimes wheeled him near it along the circular path through the grounds, but it had been a long time since he had walked right up to it. In summer, its base was attacked by flowers: poppies, forcing remembrance, and wild roses too, red as the poppies.

He thought he would pause in its shade for a while, out of the ever oppressive heat and glare for a while. Sit and rest his legs and perhaps, in view of the Abbey itself, he might be able to think clearly for once.

His plans for peace and consideration were thwarted, however. As he stepped round the corner of the folly, he saw the drape of a dark skirt over its side. Someone was sitting there, leaning against a pillar, a woman, and Matthew stopped in its tracks, his heart pounding. With all the certainty of the cursed, he knew it was Mary, and when she slipped her legs over the side and bent down to pluck something from the grass, his guess was confirmed.

He was still and silent, there was nothing to give him away, but with a matching instinct, she raised her head, and looked directly at him. Her lips parted, her face a cold mask of surprise and Matthew felt his chest and throat close up again in panic.

For several moments they simply stared at each other, Matthew leaning heavily on his cane and clutching the handle more tightly than was necessary, Mary still partly bent forwards, frozen. He was not sure the last time they had been alone together. No, that was a lie; how could he ever forget it?

It was Mary who moved first. She sat up straight, twirling a tiny flower in her fingers, which she had picked when she had bent down, and she looked away from him to stare at the flower before she said in a strained tone, "Hello, Matthew."

He flexed his free hand by his side. Everything was tense. "Hello."

She continued to stare at the flower. Then her fingers, ungloved, moved and pulled some invisible thing away from it which she flung from her, repeating the process several times. Matthew's gaze remained fixed on her fingers.

Finally she spoke again, dismissively, casually, as if there was nothing at all of interest to them being here together for the first time. "According to the last daisy, he loves me not, so I'm trying again."

Matthew managed to unstick his tongue from the roof of his mouth enough to say, merely for the sake of saying something, "Who?"

Now she glanced at him, a frigid, repressed glance. "I suppose there's no reason why you would remember my approaching wedding."

 _No reason why he would remember her wedding..._

"It would be very remiss of me if I forgot it," he replied coldly.

"Yes, well," she said, as she continued to pull petals off the daisy, "that wouldn't be like you at all."

He clutched his cane even harder. His legs were locked in place. They were hurting terribly but he was quite unable to move. "That's unfair, Mary."

She shrugged slightly. "Is it?"

He heard her continue under her breath, her whispers sing-song, " _He_ _loves_ _me,_ _he_ _loves_ _me_ _not,_ _he_ _loves_ _me..._ "

Her calmness was dreadful. It seemed mocking, preposterous even, in the light of what he knew about her. How could she sit there turning her upcoming marriage into a child's game while he was standing only a few feet away? Was she insensible, after everything he had believed her to feel? He didn't want her to feel it, of course, he wanted her to be happy, but the idea that she truly was indifferent now was more painful than he cared to admit.

He wanted clarification. He wanted to hear from her own lips confirmation of what his mother had told him. He didn't want to, of course, not really; nothing would be more mortifying. Yet so masochistic had he become that the desire to hear his own worst fears (or were they worst hopes?) confirmed seemed a perverse pleasure. Yet to speak directly of such a thing was quite impossible.

"How's Sybil?" he bit out, after a few moments in which his jaw worked silently as he watched her destroy the flower.

"Sybil?" she answered, only glancing at him momentarily, her voice registering no surprise at his unexpected choice of topic. "Very well, I think. We had a letter yesterday. They're back in Dublin from the country. She says Ireland is beautiful."

"I'm glad for her." Matthew found himself momentarily distracted.

Mary shrugged. "She'll get over it soon enough. They're still living with her mother-in-law and I dare say she'll be longing for home by the end of the week!"

A flash of anger passed through him unexpectedly at her casual cynicism. Was nothing sacred to her?

"At least she'll have her work."

"If she finds anything. It turns out they're not as keen to hire English aristocrats as nurses as you might think." She shot him a bright and completely false smile. "Isn't it extraordinary?"

"Very extraordinary indeed."

His hand was itching to – to do something. To prevent it from acting on some mad impulse, he shoved it into his pocket, where it came into contact with the toy dog he had grabbed earlier. He gritted his teeth as his fingers closed tightly round it.

"She likes nursing very much, doesn't she, Sybil?"

"She certainly seems to," Mary agreed without much interest.

"It's a strange interest for someone like her."

Her hand stilled on the flower for a moment and she looked up at him, puzzlement breaking briefly through the mask. "She's been doing it for three years and now you question it!"

"I'm not questioning it, Mary, I'm only-" He swallowed. "She must have been at the hospital when we- when I-"

The frown deepened. "Naturally."

"It must have been difficult for her."

She turned her head away. "Not really. She's a professional and able to emotionally detach herself. They have training for that, you know. But of course you do; your mother is a nurse too."

"Then I suppose," he continued with a little more energy, "I am lucky to have been cared for by such professionals. I would hate to have caused any unnecessary distress."

"No," Mary replied sarcastically, "I am sure she felt no  _unnecessary_   _distress_."

"Well, I'm sorry!" snapped Matthew petulantly, losing patience, feeling irrationally angry that her responses were so guarded and uncommunicative, not that, if he stopped to consider the matter, he was giving her any encouragement. The sun was beating down on his back and he hobbled uncomfortably forwards under the portico and dropped his jacket and hat to the floor, flexing his arm in relief.

Mary shifted round so she was facing him, leaning against her pillar again as she shot back, "Oh, yes, you're  _so,_ _so_ _sorry_! I remember, you said." She dropped her eyes down to the flower and she plucked several more petals all at once before throwing the whole thing away.

Matthew sucked in a breath as he stared at her in astonishment. Was she really going to bring that up? Here? Now? Surely that whole day should be consigned to the memory as something never to be referred to again after their last terrible interview? The thought of everything he had said and done then filled him only with pain and for her to throw it in his face-

He ignored the way she could not meet his eyes, the way her fingers trembled, the way the façade was breaking. He depended on her coolness to steady him as much as he resented it, and he refused to follow her lead into  _that_ discussion. He forced down his own rising frustration and stared down at her sitting, as it were, at his feet. She seemed smaller now.

He nodded stiffly down. "You didn't finish your game."

She raised her eyes to meet his, her expression clear and pale. "Does it matter? With only two outcomes, I'm hardly left in suspense."

Matthew's left hand clenched round the handle of his cane and his right round the toy dog in his pocket. "Those two outcomes make a world of difference."

Her eyebrows darted up. "Do they? Love affecting marriage? I didn't think you believed in that connection any more!"

Her callous words caused a wave of anger to wash through him with such force he physically trembled. She had to be doing it on purpose, saying such hurtful things. His guilt was boundless over Lavinia, over her, but he had thought she agreed with him. She was marrying Richard Carlisle in a matter of weeks and glad to do so! What right had she, an engaged woman, to taunt him in this way? Hadn't he suffered enough?

"I never stopped believing in that, whatever you'd like to think." It was an effort to get out the words.

"No?" For a moment there was a flicker of something across her face, a rustle of her clothes as she shifted, some movement within her. Then she looked away again. "My mistake then."

"Your mistake?" he spluttered incoherently. He blinked in amazement though he hardly knew any more what he was amazed at or even what in particular he was objecting to, only that she made him angry. Angry and hurt and confused and, ultimately, desperately sad. " _Your_ _mistake_? I should rather think it is!"

She drew back at his vehemence, her hands retreating to the ground at her sides as if she were trying to push herself even further back against the pillar. Even as she retreated, however, she attacked him in response, the mask cracking further, though she tried to keep her tone even and there was still something in her expression that was closer to sympathy than hate.

"There's no need to get upset about it. After what you've been through, I wouldn't be surprised if you changed your tune."

He opened and closed his mouth several times.  _What_ _he_ _had_ _been_ _through?_  Good God...

"Yes," he said, his voice trembling with suppressed passion. "Yes, I have changed my tune."

Before he knew what he was doing he had flung the little toy dog at her with so much force that it bounced slightly on the stone floor where it landed a few inches from her feet.

She gasped out loud and even he was shocked at his own sudden violence. Then she had grabbed the toy in one hand, her fingers curling protectively round it, and was scrambling to her feet to face him. She was breathing rapidly and he felt a frisson of alarm run through him at her expression. It was not one he had ever seen on her before. It looked a lot like desperation, or perhaps even fear.

"I had grown accustomed," she replied in a low, shaking voice – he wondered how he could have thought her calm, "to our not being friends any more, but I didn't expect you to add insult to injury!"

He took a step forward, leaning his weight heavily on his cane. "When," he asked, forcing his tone to be measured, "did I insult you, Mary?"

She took a step back and hit the pillar again, trapped. Her eyes darted across his face. "I think claiming I was responsible for Lavinia's death counts as something of an insult, don't you?"

He gaped at her and held out his hand in appeal. "Mary, I-" He couldn't continue. She had to know he hadn't meant  _her_ on her own, he'd meant them, their relationship, their foolish actions, more particularly his in kissing her. God, she was only saying it because she meant something else. He was sure of it; she had to be.

"You insulted both of us saying that. Lavinia-"

"Oh, for God's sake!" He did not want to hear her talk about Lavinia now, not in this voice she had that sounded reasonable, even sympathetic, but was cutting and hard and – and truthful. "I wish you would stop playing games!"

Now she blinked at him, warier than ever and twisted her head away. "Oh, Matthew, if you think I've been playing games, then you have no idea-"

"I do!" he cried, interrupting her. "I know," he added more quietly and more intensely.

Her mouth fell slightly open as she sucked in a breath and he realised he had given away more than he wanted to. For a few moments they stared at each other. She was unreadable, always unreadable, though he tried so hard, his gaze searching hers. Anyway, why did it matter? Only, if he was going to reveal himself in any way, then he would appreciate some reaction. All she was giving him was wide, limpid eyes, caution and – and a little bit of curiosity too. He hated that. There was nothing that she could – that she  _should_ be curious about.

"Then you know," she continued, her eyes never leaving his face, "that Lavinia died of the Spanish 'flu-"

He looked away abruptly, realising as he did so just how close he had managed to come to her. As his eyes looked down they automatically hit the dark grey of her skirt, almost brushing against his legs.

"Please don't," he muttered.

She ignored him. "And not because of anything she saw... or we did."

His throat was tight all over again. "How can you say that?" he bit out, still not looking at her. "She couldn't bear to live without me and after she saw us toge-"

"Oh, don't be so bloody selfish, Matthew!"

His eyes snapped up to hers in surprise. He had never heard her swear before. He had not thought her capable of it. Then again, she had wanted to cut her hair, her glorious hair, so how well did he really know her?

Her lips parted and her eyes widened. "Sorry." She ducked her head away, blushing slightly. "I didn't mean-"

His hand caught her wrist as if to keep her in place. He could feel the pulse jump under his fingers.

"No. No, I think you meant exactly that," he replied, wondering at her and at him. "You think I'm selfish."

"I think you should listen to what you're saying." She was pressing herself so far back against the pillar that the agitation of her breast was even more obvious as she breathed.

"I can't help being aware," Matthew found himself saying thickly, the phrases coming in short bursts, "that Cousin Cora recovered, that Carson recovered, everyone except for Lavinia recovered. She died, and you know why she died, Mary?"

"Because she had a more severe strain of the illness."

She pulled her wrist towards herself, but he didn't let go. "Because she gave up. I broke her heart. Considering that, how do you think-"

She shook her head in a quick, jerky movement. "No woman ever died of a broken heart. They continue to beat, you see, whatever happens."

Matthew felt his own heart pound. There was enough consciousness in her tone to make him pause, and his mother's words rang in his ear. Had he ever considered her feelings? His hand tightened round her wrist and he swallowed.

"Not everyone," he said in a low voice, "has your strength of character, Mary."

"I'm glad," she replied and her voice broke, her face suddenly crumpling away from him almost onto his shoulder. "I wouldn't wish that on-"

He couldn't bear it. "God, Mary..."

Letting go of his cane which fell to the ground with a clunk and rolled off the steps onto the grass to be forgotten, his arm went round her waist and he pulled her unresistingly to him. She sighed gently, her breath tickling his ear. She was warm in his arms and her heart beat was strong and rapid against his. It was the closest he had been to another human being since – since he had last held her.

For several moments she simply stood there, passive against him, and then she loosened her wrist from his clasp and gently ran her hand up his arm to his shoulder, letting it rest there lightly. They were suspended there, not looking at each other, not quite together but no longer apart.

There was nobody else he wanted to hold, nobody in the world – there never would be, and it was quite impossible. Lavinia's dying words, as with all dying words, had proclaimed their doom and made it impossible to act. He pulled back regretfully to look at her, unable, just yet to drop his arm and release her.

"I'm sorry, my dear," he said blinking at her. He felt as if he were seeing her again after a very long time; the unpleasant peakiness of her complexion, even in summer, the way her lips were drawn together in something between pain and determination, the bright, unshed tears glimmering in her dark eyes... "We can't. I wish we could, but it wouldn't be right. We're-"

"Cursed," she finished for him, and those tight lips curved up into something that was almost a smile. The hand on his shoulder came up to cup his cheek and for a moment he felt perfectly light-headed.

"Mary..." he tried to warn her, but she was really smiling now, however tremulously.

"Have you never read a fairy tale, Matthew? There's no story I've ever come across that  _ends_ with the curse."

Then, before he could even imagine what she meant, she closed the gap between them and kissed him.


	3. Smashed

Her lips were chapped. It was a silly thing to notice but it was nevertheless the first thing Matthew was aware of when she kissed him. It was also the last, as delirious heat rushed through him making his head swim, and he pulled her to him, his arms tightening unconsciously round her waist and smoothing over her back. One of her delicate hands slid up into his hair but her other, the one clasping the toy dog, still hung limp by her side. She kissed him fiercely however, and her lips, strangely softer than they seemed a second ago, parted under his. Another bolt of hot desire shot through him and shocked him to the core. He pulled desperately away from her. Their lips were the last to part, however, and even as he pushed her away from him back against the pillar, they lingered on hers before finally separating.

He held up his hands in defence. "What – what was that?" He stared at her wildly, breathing heavily as he tried to control his reaction. It was utterly inappropriate in every way. He was inappropriate.

Mary had turned her head away from him and covered her mouth with her hand before wiping it slowly across her lips. She looked back at him, her eyes dark with passion and hurt.

She took a shuddering breath and swallowed before replying, "That – that was you."

"I don't understand."

"No, but I want you to. I want-"

"By  _kissing_ me?" Matthew spluttered. "Good God, Mary, what is that meant to achieve?" He shook his head as his breathing calmed a little. "Life isn't the fairytale you seem to want to believe. The princess won't ever wake no matter what you do."

She moved forwards and took hold of his arm, speaking with more urgency. "Then let her sleep, Matthew!"

She was too close to him again and he reacted automatically to her proximity, his eyes dropping to her lips for a split second before he pulled them up, ashamed of himself.

"No!" he cried, taking a step back and flinging off her hand. "Mary, you're like a witch! A – a siren or some kind of dark fairy."

"A siren? Oh, I assure you I'm perfectly human."

Matthew felt that he was losing his grasp on reality. Her kiss had thrown him completely and he felt as if he were being backed into a corner, a corner of his own creation. The sun, lower in the sky than it had been, was still beating down on him even under the portico and he felt a prickly stickiness under his waistcoat that removing his jacket had not helped. The only bright reality was Mary and this argument that seemed to be being passed backwards and forwards like a flaming ball that neither dared to touch for too long. For arguing they most certainly were and although he felt as if he was slowly losing the thread of the debate, it seemed tremendously important to him to keep throwing the ball back at her. Because if he stopped... if he stopped...

"Because you tempt me! That's what sirens do, tempt people from the path of duty and virtue and that's exactly what-"

She flung out her arms. "Oh, Matthew Matthew Matthew, do stop sounding like the heroine of an eighteenth century novel; nobody cares about your virtue!"

" _I_  do!" He jabbed his finger at his own chest, glaring at her. "What else do I have? I let her down, I failed, I fell. How else can I atone?"

"Do you think you're the first?" she burst out at him, her expression anxious, desperate, pleading. Her earlier coolness had completely gone, to be replaced by a harsh, burning intensity that terrified as much as it treacherously excited him. She stepped forwards again, invading his personal space and he stumbled back, feeling the tension in his legs. "Do you think you're the first to make a mistake? The first to regret their actions?"

"Of course not, but-" She had been engaged too, he considered. She still was.

"But you have a choice! You have a choice, Matthew," she repeated more quietly but with no less insistence, "between letting it rule your every waking moment and giving your years up to what you cannot change and letting it dominate everything you do or-"

"Or?" he interrupted as his back hit the next pillar along; she had pushed him with force of will alone.

"Or continuing to live, as the rest of us have to!"

Her eyes were too bright and the sun too low. He looked away. "I can't!"

Mary expelled her breath and momentarily twisted her head away with an expression of the greatest pain. It hurt Matthew to see her and quite unexpectedly he felt tears prick at his eyes as his throat closed up once more, though he had no idea whether his pity was for her or for himself.

"I can't," he repeated.

She raised her eyes to his and something in her expression had settled. Taking hold of his hand, she raised it so that their palms were laid flat against each other then slid her fingers between his, holding on so tightly that her knuckles were white. Matthew's lips parted as his eyes flickered from her face to their joined hands and back again.

"There aren't many choices in life, I know that better than most," she said with a false steadiness. Now that he allowed himself to listen, he could hear the fragility in her tone and the way her voice trembled under its smooth surface. "But the one thing we always have control over is how we manage the cards we have been dealt."

Her grip was painful as if she was clutching at him for dear life and he brought his own fingers down over her fist to mirror hers. His nails dug into her skin. He did not know how to respond and could only repeat the same words with a cry of anguish, "Mary, I  _can't_!"

"Oh, Matthew," she sobbed, almost losing her final shred of control, and her nails dug into his skin too, "of course you can!"

It was the hitch of her breath that undid him. Or maybe it was the way the sun suddenly caught the moist shimmer in her beautiful eyes. Or the way that her pressure on his hand wasn't actually as painful as it should have been. Or the strength of her belief in him that had never once wavered.

Maybe it was simply her.

He caught her round her waist and pulled her towards him, flush against his chest, and bent his head to kiss her. She stretched against him, meeting him halfway with a force that took their breaths away. For a second they froze against one another and then her arm was round his neck, her fingers still fisted round the toy dog, and he could feel the angles of her shoulder blades through her blouse as it bunched under his hand, clutching her more possessively to him. There was no more stillness. The power of the kiss, all lips and tongue and teeth and desperate shifts of position and tilting of heads, was bruising, all encompassing, nothing either could have imagined was possible.

Matthew's eyelids were pressed together almost painfully tightly. Everything about him was tense and on edge – his legs, trembling with the effort of supporting him, his arms, rigid and clinging, even the force of his kiss was hard. She was so much the opposite: everything about her which should have been tough and unforgiving and hurtful to him was soft and pliable and warm in his arms. His hand came up and stroked her cheek, long, juddering strokes against the most delicate of skin and his shaking fingers came away wet: she was crying. Now he could feel it in the way she was kissing him more gently, more slowly, more deeply. Then she nibbled lightly on his lip and a groan slipped out of him from the very depths of his soul as his head tilted back, bumping gently against the pillar.

He pulled their clasped hands in against their bodies and his thumb grazed against her breast causing her to shudder, a fluttery movement he felt all the way down his body. He leaned back against the pillar, shifting awkwardly from one aching leg to the other without breaking the kiss. Her skin was so soft even through her thin, summer blouse and he rubbed his hand all over her back. With a gasp she arched against him and he pulled his lips away from hers for a moment to kiss her jaw. Another gasp that was more a suppressed sob. She pulled his head down to her neck and he buried his face against her skin and kissed her there too. She was so sweet, and the kisses turned into licks and then into sucks as he marked her with bruising need.

It was Mary and she was there against him like a fantasy. She had always been a little unreal to him, and there was a glorious paradox between the impossibility of what was happening – the very real feel of her warm body moving against his and her little sounds of emotion and want – and how perfectly, how easily it could all be a hysterical dream. Maybe he would awake and find himself in his damnable bedroom back at Crawley House surrounded by the evidence of his packing. Or even worse, his army dugout or his childhood bed in Manchester. Then she twisted in his arms and bit down on his earlobe, pulling her hand out of his grip in order to wind that round his back too. He grabbed indiscriminately at her as he felt real, throbbing pain, and cried out, "Oh God!"

His eyes flew open and hit the glowing, evening sun. Blinking spots from his eyes he forced her head back from his and stared at her.

"Mary..." he began. He felt drugged, peculiar, both hot and cold, tense, longing, nervous,  _everything_. He couldn't stop touching her, running his hands over her back, her sides, her neck, her cheek... Anything to avoid breaking their contact and returning to the gloom of what he knew to be reality. He blinked again and licked his lips, tasting her on them. His stomach clenched and he felt another almost unbearable way of desire wash over him as her chest, rising and falling with her rapid breaths, brushed lightly against his.

"Mary," he tried again, his voice impossibly deep and hoarse, "you're going to be married."

A tiny line appeared between her eyes as she frowned and she pulled her lips in and chewed them, a little mannerism he had never seen on her before and which he could not help focusing on. Then she spoke and his eyes shot back to hers.

"Am I?"

Matthew opened his mouth and then closed it. Memories shot through him and he shook his head and brushed away the remnants of her tears from her cheek.

"Well, aren't you?" he replied tensely.

Now she glanced down to his lips and Matthew briefly closed his eyes and leaned his head against the pillar: she wanted to kiss him again, she did. And he wanted to kiss her too because, God, he  _always_ wanted to kiss her and what-

"You know, I'm not so sure any more."

She was staring at him in perplexity and somehow Matthew felt that the balance of power had shifted. She was looking at him as if she were the one asking the question and he could be expected to answer it. He didn't know how he was meant to, he wasn't even sure what the question was, but then her fingers slid into his hair on the base of his skull and he forgot what he was trying to understand and kissed her again.

Mary melted against him instantly, her mouth opening to him, and there was something different about it. This new kiss felt both sweeter and yet more intimate. Something had changed. Her arms wound round his neck and he held her more tightly, exploring her, questioning her, and receiving only the warmest, deepest confirmation in her response. He felt emotion well up in him and the only possible answer seemed to be to kiss her and hold her and be kissed and be held by her. It wasn't enough though. He could feel her body through her blouse, lithe and solid and human, but it still wasn't enough. His feet hit the base of the pillar as he attempted to shuffled backwards and straighten up. Instead he swayed forwards and forced her back; they needed to be closer... In response, she tugged on his shirt pulling it half out of his trousers in the process, and moved them both backwards. Matthew stepped forwards, pressing against her, and almost collapsed as he was deprived of the pillar and his legs, strained, pressured, trembling with the tension he felt all over, were forced to bear his full weight. She stumbled and had to push him away to prevent them both from falling.

"Matthew!" she gasped, retaining his hand in a tight grip. "What is it?"

He shook his head, raising his eyes to the ceiling of the folly in despair. A sudden, new wave of humiliation and shame washed over him. He really was good for nothing. "My legs. I can't even-"

"Ssh, it doesn't matter," she interrupted him, and then her arms were around him again and she was burying her face in his neck and kissing it. Matthew expelled a sigh and leaned back against the pillar. For a moment his desire for her was dimmed by his feelings of inadequacy and the aching in his legs.

"Oh, Matthew," she murmured into his hair as if it were the most obvious thing in the world, "I love you so very much."

He felt a strange, momentous hesitation before he wrapped his arms gently round her and stroked her back. For the first time he felt able to accept her and her love. Saying it out loud made it real as nothing else had done. He tipped his head back and stared out at the evening sun burnishing Mary's hair and turning it a glittering gold. Then he kissed the top of her head.

"I know," he replied thickly.

For a few minutes they remained together as the sky turned a deeper and deeper pink outside the folly. Matthew continued to gently stroke Mary's back, feeling her soft breath tickle his ear. He felt her gradually relax in his arms and a new calmness fall over them both, only marred by the inevitable prickling, coiling need that he could not help feeling and the growing stiffness in his legs, brought on from such unusual exertion. He shifted from foot to foot, trying desperately to ignore it.

Mary pulled away and met his eyes. "You're in pain."

His fingers danced along the baseline of her hair and her eyes fluttered closed for a moment.

"No," he replied. "Not really. I can manage."

It was an obvious lie and the corner of her lips turned up. "It's alright, Matthew. You don't have to be a martyr to me."

She kissed him briefly and traced down his arms with her hands until she held both of his. She descended from the steps of the folly and onto the grass. Matthew frowned and broke eye contact to glance at where his stick lay abandoned on the floor. Then he looked back at her. What did he need that for when he had her?

She led him down the steep slope and finally stopped when they reached level ground. Matthew blinked in the brightness of the sun illuminating the house in the background and the woman in the foreground. He felt uncomfortably warm out here once more, heat beating down from all sides and radiating from her hands and spreading all through him.

He frowned and licked his lips. "What do you want, Mary?" he asked her, rubbing his thumbs gently over her hands.

She smiled slightly. "You, Matthew. If you'll have me."

He blinked and looked down, his insides churning at the intent he could perceive in her voice, however deceptively light it was. He knew her better than that.

Poppies were growing in the grass, their redness like a splash of vivid blood in the green. Poppies for remembrance. Poppies for Flanders. Poppies for the dead.

And yet... Poppies, wild and waving and bright and unstoppable in their takeover of the field. Poppies for the living.

Slowly Matthew raised his eyes to hers and took a step forward. He cupped her face with one hand and then leaned forward and very deliberately kissed her, his hand sliding into her hair and pulling her clip out. They fell to their knees opposite each other and her hair tumbled onto her shoulders in one fluid movement. It was soft and warm and so very much  _hers_  and he ran his fingers through it with wonder as she pulled the rest of his shirt out of his trousers and set to work on his belt. Now her fingers were on his skin ghosting over his back and waist, hot and tender and so very alive and real. He shivered and suddenly her hair and her lips weren't enough. He lowered his hands and started to explore her, the curve of her neck, her back and waist and breasts, her hips... Every touch, every caress, every responding gasp or moan was a brilliant proclamation of her reality and brought him to shuddering life. She sank back into the grass and he lowered himself over her, feeling every contour of her body beneath him, trembling and open and alive. So very, very alive.

The low sun was in his eyes, the blue sky above them was streaked with red, red as the poppies in the green grass around them and under them. Everything was luminous with colour and radiance, a brightness that drove away forever any thought of his black jacket, abandoned on the floor of the folly with his stick and other trappings of what once had been. High above them, a bird circled in the sky, the merest speck of white, and Mary tore her eyes from Matthew's to look at it over his shoulder. The bird emitted a piercing shriek, flying lower, and the woman cried out with it and buried her face in his neck, biting down on his shoulder. He wrapped his arms round her, cradling her to him, and rocking against her, pressing his eyes shut. But even then the brightness would not disappear. Everything in him was brilliant, shining, pulsing, living, liquid heat. He kissed her over and over again, every kiss an affirmation, an apology, a pledge and she arched to meet him every time, pulling him closer to her until he could go no further. Matthew's eyes opened wide and met hers, seeing the sun reflected in them. They seemed to shoot gold sparks and for a moment he was lost in them and she was was lost in his before, with a wordless groan, everything coalesced into a kaleidoscope of colour, bursting forth it seemed from the very earth, throbbing in tune with their ecstasy.

Even afterwards, when Matthew had rolled onto his back and finally opened his eyes, nothing had faded. He looked up and the sky was still streaked with brilliant red and gold. Flying off towards the west were two birds, wheeling and calling to each other, burnished by the sun's rays like a pair of phoenixes.

Everything felt limp, as if he had been turned inside out, broken into pieces, and then somehow put back together but in an indescribably different way. His head was heavy and throbbed when he turned it to look at Mary. She lay on her back as well just a foot away from him, her chestnut hair spread out like a halo. Her chest rose and fell visibly with her breaths and her limbs were so loose that her hand fell from where it was resting on her stomach and she did nothing to stop it. Matthew watched her with fascination, his eyes tracing over her face, her eyelashes, her nose, her freckles, her lips, the curve of her neck and downwards, taking in every inch that his hands and lips had explored barely minutes earlier, with almost breathless incredulity combined with a full and satisfied appreciation of her, of the woman he had loved and still loved so very dearly.

As he became more and more aware of his own body he realised he was lying on something and squirmed on the grass until he was forced to half sit up and stick his hand in his pocket. Mary opened her eyes at this and turned her head with a frown.

"What's in my-" began Matthew in some confusion, reflecting as he spoke that these were probably the most inauspicious words possible with which to start a conversation considering what they had just done. Then he looked at what he pulled out of his pocket and fell silent: the toy dog.

He looked from it to her and she shrugged a little. "I had to put it somewhere," she murmured contentedly.

Matthew had to admit he had really not been paying attention at that moment. He swallowed, suddenly feeling strangely nervous, and held it out to her.

"What are you doing?" she asked, sitting up.

He tried out a smile, just a small one. It felt unfamiliar. "Giving it back to you. Without a scratch, remember."

Mary looked down at it briefly and then back at him. She tilted her head to one side. "You already gave it back to me."

He shook his head. "No, I didn't; I threw it at you. It's not the same thing, Mary."

She raised her eyebrows and smiled sweetly but still didn't take it. "Are you giving yourself a second chance to get it right then?"

"Maybe I am."

She flopped back on the grass and smiled up at the sky, one arm stretched above her head. He could never have imagined seeing her so informally. Not sure what to do, he lay back down beside her, stretching out his arm between them with the toy lying in his open hand in case she wanted to take it. A few seconds passed and then he felt her fingers touch his palm, but she still didn't take the dog back. Instead, she curled his fingers over it and then without a word enclosed his hand with her own.

They lay like that for several long seconds or maybe minutes or even hours. Even now Matthew didn't know what to say. He didn't know where they stood with each other. He could never have imagined himself in this situation. He didn't even know if she was still engaged to Richard Carlisle or not. It seemed impossible that she should be and yet she had been and far be it for him to presume what Mary Crawley should do or what her motivations for marrying would be. Moreover, what on earth  _did_ one say to someone who had given their virtue freely and willingly to him in the grass below the folly? What did one say to the girl to whom one had just lost one's virtue? Matthew was sure there had to be an etiquette for this sort of thing but he didn't know what it was. There was so much he still didn't understand.

"Do you think we'll be happy?" she asked suddenly, in a pensive and curious murmur.

A feeling of warmth, pleasanter and less intense than the heat of earlier, began to spread through him at her words. He didn't say anything for a moment before eventually replying honestly, "I don't know." She turned her head towards him, examining him carefully, and he turned his towards hers. "I – I'd like to think so, Mary. One day. I hope so!"

She smiled at him and squeezed his hand. "I hope so too."

**The End**


End file.
